Page 43 of The Beast's Broken Angel
He turned to me suddenly. “You recognise this cutting style?”
I hesitated, medical assessment warring with self-preservation. Answering truthfully meant revealing knowledge no ordinary trauma nurse should possess—but lying to Adrian seemed both futile and potentially dangerous.
“It's similar to specific field techniques,” I admitted reluctantly. “Military, possibly special forces. The depth is controlled, designed to maximise pain while extending consciousness.”
Adrian's expression shifted subtly. “How do you know this kind of thing?” he asked.
“Hospital rotation in Birmingham during the 2017 gang wars,” I replied, the partial truth easier than explaining my father's graphic descriptions of interrogation techniques from his military days. “We saw similar cutting patterns. One of the trauma surgeons was ex-military and recognised the methods.”
Adrian seemed to accept this explanation, though something in his gaze suggested he was filing away the information for future consideration.
“What else can you tell me from the body?” he asked, gesturing for me to continue my examination.
I forced myself to look more closely, separating the human horror from the medical evidence. “The killer was right-handed, approximately six foot tall based on the angle of the cuts. The carving was done with a curved blade, possibly a karambit or similar tactical knife.”
I pointed to a distinctive bruise pattern on the victim's face. “He was struck with a ringed hand before death. The impression there—that's from a signet ring or similar.”
Adrian leaned closer, studying the mark I'd indicated.Something flashed across his features too quickly to read, then disappeared behind his controlled mask.
“Have the body transported to our facility,” he instructed Viktor. “Full documentation of all wounds before disposal.”
The casual way he discussed “disposal” of what had been a living person hours ago sent a chill through me despite the room's heat. This was the reality of Adrian’s world—death as a business transaction, bodies as messages to be read and then discarded.
“What about the police investigation?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
Adrian's smile held no warmth. “There won't be one. At least, not one that finds anything useful.”
His power to make a murder investigation disappear should have shocked me more than it did. But after what I'd witnessed in the basement of this very club, my capacity for shock was wearing dangerously thin.
Hours later,Ravenswood's kitchen provided incongruous normalcy—gleaming copper pots hanging above a massive island, state-of-the-art appliances standing ready for the breakfast none of us had the stomach to eat. I mechanically prepared tea, the familiar ritual settling my nerves after the night's horrors.
Dominic had been transported to a private medical facility that rivalled any hospital I'd worked in, staffed by doctors who asked no questions about shrapnel wounds at three in the morning. I'd accompanied him there, establishing treatment protocols before returning to Ravenswood with Adrian's convoy.
Now, as false dawn crept through the windows, I foundmyself moving through the motions of normality while Adrian spoke quietly with a distinguished grey-haired man who'd arrived in an unmarked car. Their conversation stopped abruptly when I approached with the tea tray.
“Harrison Blackwood, our financial director,” Adrian introduced with unusual formality. “Mr. Blackwood, this is Noah Hastings, my personal medical consultant.”
The older man rose smoothly, offering a handshake that was perfectly calibrated—firm but not aggressive. His manicured appearance and bespoke suit contrasted sharply with Adrian's blood-spattered shirt and my rumpled medical scrubs.
“A pleasure, Mr. Hastings,” Harrison said, his accent pure old-money British, the kind that spoke of public schools and inherited privilege. “I've heard impressive things about your performance tonight.”
I accepted his handshake, noting the heavy signet ring on his left hand. Something about it triggered a memory I couldn't quite place, a detail hovering just beyond conscious recognition.
“Your assistance tonight was invaluable,” Harrison continued, studying me with unsettling intensity. “Adrian has always had an eye for talent. Though I admit I'm curious how he convinced someone with your... ethical background... to join our enterprise.”
The implied question hung in the air between us, wrapped in polite phrasing but sharp underneath. I met his calculated assessment directly, refusing to be intimidated despite my exhaustion.
“Family obligations can require compromise,” I replied simply.
Something flickered in Harrison's expression—recognition, perhaps, or unexpected respect. Adrian watched our interactionwith unreadable focus, something almost predatory in his stillness.
“The Turner situation requires immediate response,” Harrison stated, returning his attention to Adrian. “I've prepared options for your review.”
As they spoke, the detail that had been nagging at me suddenly clicked into place. Harrison's signet ring matched the distinctive bruise pattern I'd seen on the dead bartender's face. The specific shape of the crest, the size, the positioning—it was too similar to be coincidence.
My breath caught, the observation lodging like a splinter in my mind. It was impossible, surely. Harrison was Adrian's financial director, his trusted advisor. He wouldn't be involved with the group that had attacked The Raven's Nest.
Yet the evidence was literally on his hand.
